


Bard Soup

by poselikeateam



Series: Incubus Jaskier AUs [9]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Communication Failure, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Getting Together, Humor, Idiots in Love, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Incubus Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion is Bad at Communicating, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25653841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: There's no such thing as a silver allergy. Jaskier refuses to believe this. Geralt has to not only convince him that he isn't fully human, but that it doesn't matter either way. After all, a person is like soup; the ingredients make it what it is, but no one looks at the ingredients over the soup.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Incubus Jaskier AUs [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778233
Comments: 22
Kudos: 555





	Bard Soup

Geralt had thought, for the longest time, that Jaskier was impermanent. After all, who and what in his life wasn’t? The thing is, though, Jaskier is not like other people. There is very little about him that Geralt can call average, and while at first it annoys the fuck out of him, it just ends up being one of the things he loves about the bard.

Yeah, he has to admit it, at least to himself. He’s terrible at saying this sort of thing, but in the relative privacy of his own thoughts, he can’t accidentally say the wrong thing. He’s in love with Jaskier. Jaskier, who has seen him at his worst and still stays with him, who has done his best to fix Geralt’s reputation instead of running in the other direction because of it, who has tried to beat giant centipedes off with his fucking lute because he thought Geralt was in trouble. His fearless, reckless, steadfast, exhausting companion. 

The thing is, Jaskier has proven that he’s in for the long haul. He’s spent literal decades at Geralt’s side. And, well, he has a terrible habit of getting in the middle of Geralt’s fights when he thinks the witcher might be losing the upper hand. It’s the closest thing Geralt has felt to fear since before the Trials, and he’s not a fan. Clearly, he has to do something about it.

“Here.” It’s the only thing Geralt says before thrusting his gift into Jaskier’s hands. The bard makes a questioning sound, fumbling with it before dropping it with a gasp. 

“Geralt, what the fuck?”

“If you’re going to travel with me, you need to stay back when I tell you to,” answers the witcher. “Since you refuse to do that, and there’s no getting rid of you, learning to protect yourself is the next best thing. So here. It’s a silver dagger. Should at least keep the monsters off of you when you inevitably draw their attention to yourself.”

“Ah, well, I didn’t want to say anything,” Jaskier says, looking strangely embarrassed, “but I’m actually allergic to silver.”

“What.”

The bard is looking at anything but Geralt, like this is actually something embarrassing. “I didn’t quite realise it until after we’d met, is the thing. We didn’t keep silver around the house when I was growing up, so I guess I was just never around it? Perhaps it’s a family affliction.”

Geralt tries to make his tone gentle, so Jaskier is more likely to answer him plainly. “What do you mean you’re allergic to silver?”

“I mean exactly that,” answers Jaskier. “I can’t touch the stuff.”

“Yes, but what are the _symptoms_?”

With a sigh, the younger man says, “Well, it’s sort of… like a rash, I suppose. It gets all red, and it _hurts_. And it gets worse the longer I touch it, so I just try not to altogether.”

“Jaskier… that’s not an allergy,” says the witcher.

“I’m pretty sure I know what I’m allergic to, Geralt,” he scoffs. “I’m not the only one with a silver allergy, you know. Nimble Nellie, at the Chameleon? She can’t even have it in her _room_.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt answers carefully, “Nellie is half succubus.”

Jaskier scoffs and says, “Geralt, I think I’d know if one of my employees wasn’t human.”

“You didn’t even know _you_ weren’t human,” the witcher answers. 

“I _am!_ ” the bard squeaks. (Oh, he’d probably try to smother Geralt in his sleep if he knew the witcher thought of it as a ‘squeak’. Thank goodness not _everyone_ he knows can read minds.)

“Mostly, sure,” says Geralt, “but not entirely.”

“You can’t prove it,” Jaskier says. His heart is racing, Geralt notices, and he smells slightly of fear. Geralt doesn’t like it.

“You don’t have anything to be afraid of,” he says, a bit stupidly. 

“You’re just changing the subject so you don’t have to try to prove this ridiculous claim of yours,” answers the bard. It seems as though they both want to dance around answering one another directly. 

Geralt sighs. “Okay, let’s prove it then.” 

“How?”

He takes a deep breath in, then out, steeling himself for the suggestion he’s about to make. “If we bring each other off, and you’re part incubus, my medallion should vibrate. If you aren’t, nothing will happen.”

Jaskier gapes at him, and it almost immediately melts into a glare. “You want to fuck me to prove if I’m a monster or not?” he hisses. 

“I don’t see another way to prove it,” Geralt answers, crossing his arms and trying his best not to look as uncomfortable as he feels. “I know I’m not exactly what most men want to fall into bed with, but—”

At that, the bard makes a noise that’s half wounded, half outraged. Geralt really does not understand him, sometimes.

“You think I wouldn’t _want to?_ ” he asks, voice filled with disbelief and indignation. “I’ve been flirting with you for bloody _decades_ , you absolute moron! How the fuck would _that_ be the problem instead of the fact that you consistently brushed me off and ignored my advances until you decided I might be a fucking _monster?_ ”

Now, Geralt is the one who is filled with anger and confusion. “How the fuck would you think I just want to sleep with you because you’re not human?”

“Because you’d never made any indication that you would _ever_ want me that way!”

“You flirt with everyone,” he says. “How would I have known if it was any different for me?” It doesn’t make any sense. Jaskier flirts as easily as he breathes. It’s just… who he is. Yes, he flirted with Geralt, but not any more than others. 

But… he has cared for him. He has patched Geralt’s wounds, has gotten into fights because someone said something rude about the witcher, has sung to him through his nightmares, has seen him at his worst — coming down from the effects of his potions, covered in monster guts, taking off a bandit’s head… and he’s stayed. The whole time, through everything, he’d consistently stayed by Geralt’s side, the only person ever to do so; and, now that he thinks about it, Geralt is the only person he’s ever treated with any sense of permanence.

It all comes into perspective very suddenly, the way a pitch-black cave becomes crystal clear after he takes a dose of Cat. Jaskier flirts with everyone, because it doesn’t mean anything to him. The things he does for Geralt, though, are the opposite. Geralt means something to him.

He pulls Jaskier into his arms, holding him tight. The indignant bard punches at his shoulders a few times before the fight leaves him, and he grumbles something into Geralt’s neck. 

“I have wanted you,” Geralt says. “You’re important to me. I never thought to ask for more, because I thought your friendship was already more than I deserved. I didn’t want to ruin things by asking for something I knew I couldn’t have.”

“You’re an idiot,” Jaskier says, but now he’s holding onto Geralt, too. “An absolute fool.”

“At least that makes two of us.”

“Oh, fuck off,” answers the bard, with no real heat behind it.

Geralt pulls back so he can look Jaskier in the eye and says, “I’d rather kiss you, actually.”

He’s glad he can see the bard’s face, because it’s an absolute treasure, the way his eyes widen and his cheeks tinge pink, the way he sucks his lower lip between his teeth and his gaze flicks between Geralt’s lips and eyes as though he can’t quite decide which one to look at. Finally, he realises that Geralt was asking permission, and nods. Geralt would love to make fun of him for not using his words, but he can’t say he doesn’t understand the feeling.

Besides, there are far more important things he could be doing with his mouth right now.

The kiss they share is nothing short of perfect. Geralt has been around a long time, and contrary to what people might think when they look at him, he has had a number of kisses in his life. None of them could hold a candle to this. The longing they’ve felt for one another finally has an outlet, and it’s almost dizzying. The kiss is suffused with a want and need that feels almost tangible. Geralt can feel the heat traveling lower, especially when Jaskier’s mouth starts to move across his jaw and down his neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses and bites along the way.

That’s when he notices it. 

“Jaskier,” he says, sounding very out of breath. The bard makes a questioning noise, and Geralt grabs his hair — not pulling, just threading his fingers in the brown locks, a physical presence. “Jaskier, my medallion.”

And Jaskier seems to remember, very suddenly, what got them there in the first place. He pulls back, lips red and swollen, eyes wide, and places a hand on Geralt’s chest.

“Fuck,” he groans. “I don’t suppose there’s a chance it could be something else?”

“Not likely,” Geralt answers. As much as he loves being right, he has to admit it’s kind of killed the mood this time. He’s only slightly amused.

“Well,” Jaskier sighs, “I guess that’s that, then. Not an allergy after all.”

“Why does it matter?” Geralt asks. 

The bard shrugs, worries at his lip with his teeth. “I just didn’t want to say, in case… I don’t know, it might make you think I’m not fit to travel with you. I know how important your silver is to your trade, after all.”

Well. That answers _a_ question, just not the one he asked. Maybe, though, it’s one that he should have asked himself. 

“You’re more than fit to travel with me,” he says. It’s strange, to admit it out loud after all this time, but he knows now that it’s something Jaskier desperately needs to hear. “I don’t think anyone on the Continent who isn’t a witcher could have lived through half of what you have, or been half as useful. That’s not what I meant, though. Why does it matter what you are? You’re the same little shit you were ten minutes ago.”

“I’ll show you little,” Jaskier mutters, and Geralt tries very hard to ignore the way that makes him feel until this conversation is over. Then, the bard sighs, and adds, “I don’t know. It’s just… strange. To think that my whole life, I thought I was one thing, only to find out I’m another entirely. I mean, how many things have I done because I’m _me_ , and how many because of what I _am?_ ”

Geralt shrugs. “What you are is a part of who you are. You don’t need to know about it for it to be something that shapes you. It’s like a soup. You don’t look at all the vegetables, you just say it’s vegetable soup.”

Jaskier actually smiles at that, like he wants to keep himself from doing so but physically can’t. “Similes don’t seem to be your area of expertise,” he says.

“Better leave it to the professionals next time, then,” he answers, kissing Jaskier’s forehead just because he can. 

In the end, Geralt is right, again. It doesn’t matter what Jaskier is, whether he’s entirely human or only partly. He’s just Jaskier. He’s the Jaskier that Geralt loves, and the Jaskier that loves him. In the end, that’s all that really matters.


End file.
